Rhapsody of a siren
by withered
Summary: It starts in the shadows of a nightclub with a mic lovingly cradled in her hands, her smoky voice serenading strangers to her bidding like a siren teasing sailors to their deaths. He thinks girls like her are trouble; she'd eat him up and spit him out. But he still comes back the next night and the next.


**A/n: **To clarify in advance the timeline kind of goes back and forth from past to present.

* * *

Rhapsody of a siren

* * *

It starts in the shadows of a nightclub with a mic lovingly cradled in her hands, her smoky voice serenading strangers to her bidding like a siren teasing sailors to their deaths.

Considering the look of the place, Ichigo wouldn't be surprised if there was some truth to it.

The Black Cat is exclusive, a world of its own and near-legendary in status. It was hidden for one, required a password for another, and the only reason he's even found the place at all is because the guy wanting to be his manager is pulling out all the stops to get him to sign with him.

Ichigo had already said he would, but apparently, it's Urahara's favorite spot.

The dance floor near the stage fills with a hush-hush-hush, rustles of fabric and peeks of bare-skin swaying with the tides of the concerto she commands through blood-red lips. Couples locked in embraces and sweetly gaping mouths crash together and sway at her every beckoning, and in the pale spotlight, her smile is sweet – amused – mischievous. Like she knows the strength of her influence, her power, and she takes pleasure in seeing her whims obeyed.

He thinks girls like her are trouble; she'd eat him up and spit him out.

But he still comes back the next night and the next.

A splash of inky dark hair cuts through the paleness of her cheek, her neck as razor-sharp as the way her eyes take him in; clever and bright and approving, most of all.

He finds out that her name is Rukia, and according to the owner, Yoruichi, a black woman who looks like she could step on the skulls of men and have them praise her from beyond the grave, Rukia doesn't just sing.

It gives Ichigo pause until she chuckles huskily, trails teasing fingers through Urahara's hair and tells him, "You've found a virtuous one, Kisuke."

"The talented ones have their flaws," he drawls with a wink.

It turns out Yoruichi isn't pimping out her staff, Rukia happens to be a bartender on nights she doesn't sing.

She tosses cheeky grins and hand waves orders at her co-workers and at the regulars from behind the counter as she juggles glasses and bottles like they aren't made of glass. Like she isn't, either.

She moves like water.

He isn't the only one who notices.

She must be used to people staring at her, used to people talking at her – leering and prepositioning – she doesn't appreciate him trying to step in, she tells him so as she cleans the blood from his lip with a cloth and presses an ice-pack against his swollen cheek from where he'd been punched. "I appreciate it, really, but I don't need your help."

"Was I suppose to just let him grab you?" he asks.

She hums, cleans off the blood, and meets his eye, an impossibility if they'd been standing but he's sitting in front of her and they're almost at the same height. The lights are too dim to discern the color of her eyes, but he thinks they're blue. "I don't _let _anyone do anything." Nudged in front of him is a man's wallet, leather worn and bills peaking out. His surprise must be obvious, and she chuckles, stepping aside. "Your next round's on me."

"Ichigo," he says once she's set a glass between them both, two fingers of something clear inside.

Her eyes look purple. "Rukia."

The liquid sloshes at their toast, and Ichigo empties it one gulp just so he won't say something stupid. Though, he must've done something funny because Rukia chuckles and asks, "Wanna know a secret?"

His brow twitches in curiosity, and she hums again.

Distorting the corner of her eye as she peers through the glass at the liquid still inside, she informs, "This is water."

Ichigo decides then that she's perfect.

Rukia pays for the second round. And he pays for the next. They close Black Cat together, and he always comes back.

* * *

"Did you even leave any for the other kids?" is how greets her in the afterparty of the awards ceremony.

He looks cool and effortless in a perfectly fitted, classic black tux, like he'd walked right off the glossy pages of some high-end magazine, or the cover of some Fifty Shades-esque romance novel.

Rukia raises an elegant brow at him. "You got yours."

"To be fair, you weren't in my category," Ichigo reminds.

"Consider yourself lucky."

He smirks, volleys right back, "You win seven awards and think you've got it all, don't you?"

"I don't think I have it all," Rukia remarks with a quirk of her lips as she remarks coquettishly, "I don't have a drink."

At that, his smirk turns sharper, slow and wicked, and just like that, _Ichiruki, _as the media labels them, is born.

Or so they'll say.

* * *

"I can't tell," Rukia muses one day, "what do you do?"

He eyes her from over the rim of his glass, doesn't reply, which leads her to continue thoughtfully, "We make a game out of it, you know?" With a nod of her head and a wave of her hand, she subtly gestures, "That one's in a shitty marriage, that one's a disgraced heir, that one's got a stake in Wall Street."

"Is the last one necessary?" he drawls, "kind of sounds like an odd one out?"

"He always flashes his money around but never spends it and never tips, I think it's fitting," Rukia tells him breezily and her co-worker, a strawberry blonde, laughs like Rukia sings – the people around the bar get reeled in – though Ichigo thinks it has more to do with Rangiku's generous cleavage than anything else.

"I'm an actor."

Now she's surprised. "Are you?" This town is full of those types. Hopefuls and Would-bes and Has-beens.

"Way to hurt my feelings," he deadpans which makes her laugh, and the only one that gets pulled in is him.

"Are you in anything I know?"

"Maybe." It's all art house stuff, independent. He's no amateur, not with who his parents are, but he's trying to make his own name, and the work is good, steady, unobtrusive – he doesn't get paparazzi following him around – no one cares who he is. (Yet.) He finds that he wants it to be different with her. "You?"

"'You' what?" Rukia echoes, amused.

"Is this the hopes and dreams of…what's your last name?"

"Don't really have one, but for paperwork purposes, it's Kuchiki," she replies with a careless smile. When he raises his brow in question, she elaborates, "Kuchiki was the name on my onesie when I showed up at the orphanage. I'm lucky enough to have this." She shrugs then, and says, "But I'm happy where I am right now, _good."_

And that's refreshing, people always want _moremoremore, _never satisfied about what is and what's now, so he raises his drink in a toast she returns with a shot glass before she slides that across the counter to the person who'd ordered it.

"But if you could," he poses, "what?"

"What would I do?" she elaborates before a beat later, like yet another secret she shares, "I'd sing." Then with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes which are blue today, she asks, "You gonna promise to help me with my career now because that's usually the follow-up."

"Is that before or after they've come onto you?"

"Why," Rukia teases, "are you asking if you can?"

He's glad for the dim light so she doesn't see his blush even as he admits, "Timing is everything."

He still can't tell whether her eyes are purple or blue, even when he manages to get closer – _closer_ – as close as they can possibly get. But the marks he leaves are both – she doesn't seem to mind, and her lips are pink and red and wet, and then Ichigo's much more concerned with the noises she makes; her ragged breaths, her soft mewls, her sighs.

Ichigo's convinced he has them all cataloged, but he makes it his mission to make sure – he likes to be thorough.

The door opens in a flourish.

"God," Rangiku huffs, "you two are the worst."

Rukia drags Ichigo over her to cover herself, and Ichigo certainly won't complain, except where Rangiku is involved, "Do you mind? We're celebrating over here."

"Oh, is it a day ending in 'y', already?" she fake gasps to Rukia snickers, muffled against Ichigo's neck distractingly, even as she dutifully replies, "We're celebrating the fact that you've managed to unveil our relationship so masterfully."

"Well," Rangiku declares with a dramatic flip of her hair, "I am quite the master, aren't I?"

Ichigo grunts, bowing his head to nip at Rukia's skin.

"Oi, _do not damage the merchandise, _Chrissakes," Rangiku scolds, "just because you guys are media-official does not mean you can mark her up, _god, _that's not the reason I agreed to this, you know!"

"Isn't it?" Ichigo drawls. "Because I've waited a long fucking time to kiss my girl in public."

"Kiss me, not lay _claim_ all over me, you barbarian," Rukia declares with a snort, lightly pushing him off even though she'd been the one to drag him there. She manages to pull the top of her dress back up and rolls over. "What's up? You aren't just here to cockblock, I'm sure."

"As thrilling as that particular hobby's been," Rangiku snickers, "You've got an interview and a photo spread for Vogue on the docket for early tomorrow morning, and you need your beauty sleep. And you, sir, have a whole pile of scripts to go through before Urahara decides to bury your body in the woods. Chop, chop, chop, the world does not wait for love and sweet nothings."

* * *

Everything happens like a tide coming in – eating away at the shore with every toss of the wave, every pull of the moon – you don't realize until there's no more land to stand on until the water's too much –

"You know, your dad used to look at your mother just like that."

His gaze flickers, his mouth tugging at the corner.

Things are good – _great _even.

He's getting some buzz for his work, small roles here and there, a recurring casting credit, and a lead role in the works. And Rukia – she's met some music producers – talked shopped with some noticeable names in the business.

Things are happening for them, _things are good._

"You could tell her," Urahara suggests. "I doubt she'd run away." When he doesn't reply, Urahara prods, "You're living with her, aren't you?"

Where Ichigo has grown comfortable with Rukia's digs, teasingly arguing with her over chores to do and bills to split; sharing a candle when the power goes out, listening to her sing no matter where he is in the apartment, and having to fight the urge to reach for her and warm her when the geyser bursts and they have to shower with cold water, it isn't _his _life – it's the life he pretends is his.

"We're roommates."

She'd offered. Housing is shitty around here for people trying to break into the business, it seemed financially smart to share the burden if she was going to spend less time at the Black Cat to pursue her music career. He hadn't disagreed. "We're just friends," he continues, except just friends don't look at each other the way they do.

It's been a herculean effort not to succumb, but –

"I underestimated how vitreous you actually are," Urahara muses. "Let me guess, the two of you are just drowning in the unresolved sexual tension and haven't even kissed? Ichigo, Ichigo, Ichigo – it's no wonder you've got such a big stick up your ass."

His cheeks flush despite efforts to suppress it as he grunts, "I didn't want to keep anything from her, not if we were going to be more involved than we already are."

"A lie of omission is still a lie." When he's met with silence, Urahara offers in sigh, "You know, she's going to find out eventually."

And she does. Fortunately, it's from his own mouth.

Because while he's worked to keep himself in check, torturing himself with the possibilities of having everything he wants: a woman who loves him more than his last name and a career he's built himself – Rukia draws the line in the sand:

"Do you actually want anything more with me, or am I going crazy?" she poses, and she's standing so close, and her eyes are blue today and –

"I do," he rushes, "I do want more."

"Then why," she trails swaying closer, only for him to take a reluctant step back. "_Why?"_

"Because there's something I haven't told you."

"You're married, you don't pay child support, you committed fraud, you killed a guy. What?" she demands. "Because I'm sick of this will-we-won't-we energy. I've got -" She exhales angrily. "I've got…things to do now that isn't just…paying bills and singing in a nightclub. I-I'm getting _work, _Ichigo. And I might not hundred percent buy that I'll be the next big thing, but the life I want seems possible now and I'm tired – I'm so tired of wasting my time on things that don't actually matter. And I'm not asking you to love me or stay." Her breathe hitches and his chest hurts. "But you're my friend and I want to keep you and I can't do that if I don't know where we stand. So just -"

"My last name isn't actually Kurosaki," he bursts.

"What?"

"It's Shiba." When she stares at him in disbelief, in confusion, he verifies, "Shiba as in, the son of famous actors, Isshin and Masaki."

Her mouth opens and closes with a click, and there are panic sirens going off in the space between his ears as he stutters, "I'm from money. I have…connections. I have…fuck, I have the whole fucking industry on a platter, and it didn't make me happy. Not until I decided I wanted to do it on my own, not until I met you and built this life and -"

And then she's reaching over to hit his arm. "You jackass, we split the rent evenly!" And then, "Idiot, do you think I care who your parents are? I don't even know who mine are, you think I'm bothered about yours?"

"You don't – you don't care?"

"No!" Rukia exclaims, face like thunder. "Damn it, did you think I would?"

No, he thinks, never, and Ichigo doesn't even care if she's pissed right now because they're going to be okay.

They're going to be more than okay.

* * *

They keep their relationship secret during their individual ascensions to stardom, a combined desire to attain their dreams and maintain privacy while they navigate a serious relationship away from the glare of the cameras.

Even though he looks like his dad and has his mother's coloring, no one puts it together that Kurosaki Ichigo is the only son of the most famous acting duo in Japan. Not until he receives Oscar buzz for a Sundance film, and the reporters begin to dig.

The big reveal of his actual last name doesn't quite overshadow his win, but it's a close thing.

Rukia, on the other hand, builds up a following of her own, and after steady single releases and album drops over a five-year period, chart-toppers with a few reaching triple platinum status, she becomes known as Japan's songbird.

They take longer to reveal that they're actually an item, and the gossips aren't particularly pleased with the speed with which they're relationship moves before their eyes.

(Ichigo wasn't kidding when he said he'd looked forward to finally getting to kiss her in public.)

Of course, they lay the blame at Rukia's feet with more than one rag claiming she's always had a taste for guys like Ichigo; orphan nobody that she is.

So, when Ichigo takes her name, everyone just assumes Rukia's just bewitched him.

Watching her serenade an overflowing arena at one of her many sold-out concerts, she meets his gaze and smiles, and Ichigo thinks there might be some truth to it.

Not that the thought particularly bothers him.

He's got everything he wants.

* * *

**A/n: **Apologies for the disappearance, if you aren't following me on tumblr, I took a bit of a break to deal with some family stuff. I'm working on updating No vacancy as we speak, but until then, I hope you enjoyed this!


End file.
